


The Science Bros in..."For the Birds"

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Birds, Cooking, Evolution, Gen, Humor, Science Bros, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh off the conclusion of their previous experiment, the Science Bros Bruce and Tony work together to answer an age-old question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chicken

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp overhead; the rest of the lights had each been turned off for the night. The computer screens, for the most part, had also been turned off, but the blinking lights of the machinery flickered to show that they were still calculating. Their incessant whir was like that of a hive of bees busily going about their business. It was night, but work waited for no man.

But bros, on the other hand…

The science bros sat at one of the small, round tables in the workroom of Stark Tower. The single lit lamp was above their particular table, shining down on two heads bent over their two-a.m. repast. One head, dark hair expertly tousled, belonged to Tony Stark, billionaire and owner of the tower itself. He was handsome and charismatic. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him. There were women who wanted to be him, too, and definitely some men who wanted him, but Tony only had eyes for his bro, the other man at the table, Bruce Banner. Bruce has graying brown hair in a curly mop and sparkling brown eyes. His smile could light up a room. He had his legions of admirers, too, but he was deeply devoted to his redheaded girlfriend, Natasha. In fact, the only person he was closer to was Tony.

They even had matching tattoos.

On this particular night, Tony and Bruce had just completed their latest long-term research project into the viability of using quantum nanotubes in live-saving medical procedures. They’d successfully duplicated human lung tissue that functioned normally. Its cells were replicating at just the right pace to simulate mitosis in humans, and it was even guaranteed to work with any blood type. The two men were toasting their success with sparkling cider and platters of fried chicken--their favorite. 

“Mmm,” Tony said, licking his fingers and reaching for another drumstick, “nothing tastes so good as the first meal after the end of an experiment!”

“You’re right,” Bruce agreed. He wiped his fingers on his napkin and took a sip of juice. “I’m really proud of what we achieved, but I am looking forward to a break for sure. Nat’s been after me for weeks because I have been over here so late. She knows why this is important, but I can’t wait to get to spend some quality time with her.”

“Oh, yeah, Pepper’s been the same way,” Tony said quickly before taking a huge bite of his chicken.

After a moment, Bruce drained his glass and shifted to stand. “I should be going…” he began.

“Did you ever stop to wonder about chicken?” Tony queried before Bruce’s butt was more than an inch off the seat.

The curly-haired man gave him a strange look. “What about chicken?” he asked with no small amount of trepidation.

“Chicken chicken.” Tony swallowed before continuing. “The taste of chicken.”

“Not really, no. Listen, Tony, I need to be getting back--”

“Why does everything taste like chicken is what I’m asking,” the goateed man said hastily. “Think about it: every time someone eats meat, light meat or dark, but they don’t know what kind of meat it is, they say it tastes like chicken.” Tony sat back in his chair and gestured towards Bruce. “Why do you think that is?”

The other man shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Want to know what I think?”

“You’re going to tell me regardless, so--”

“I think it’s the dinosaurs.”

Bruce paused, then narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Tony leaned forward across the table. “Evolution. They all came from dinosaurs, so they all taste alike.” He tapped the table. “Every time you taste a chicken, you’re tasting a Pterodactyl.”

“No way,” the graying man protested. He took his seat once more. “When I’m tasting this chicken, I’m tasting oil and bread--”

“And a delicious blend of eleven secret herbs and spices,” Tony finished. “I know. But under that? The actual chicken part? That’s pure dino.” He leaned back and crossed his lego over his opposite knee. “Evolution, baby. Pure and simple.”

“For chicken, maybe, but that doesn’t explain other meat. Cows and deer and all that--they’re mammals. Mammals did  _ not  _ evolve from dinosaurs, Tony. They evolved from a shrew-like thing way back in the day.”

The billionaire rolled his eyes. “Okay, so maybe we’re not eating T. rex steak or anything. But birds, for sure. They should all taste alike. Dinosaurs.”

Bruce’s stare was skeptical, to say the least. “There are 65 million years of evolution you’re skipping there, Tony. Even if there's only one single genetic change every thousand years, you’re still talking about more than 65,000 changes. We both know that evolution and genetic modification happen way more quickly than that.”

Tony shrugged. “Sure, but--”

“We’ve got so many types of birds from different regions and climates and with different diets, different sizes...there’s no way they all taste the same.” He shook his head. “And didn’t they have this argument about something in  _ The Matrix _ ? And I think I saw  _ Mythbusters _ do a segment on this exact same thing a few years ago.” He paused and shook his head again, taking a deep, soothing breath. “I’m sorry, Tony, but you’re wrong on this one. Every species of bird is different, so they’re all going to taste different.”

“Okay, Bruce. I see your point,” said the goateed man calmly, examining his nails. 

Bruce waited for the inevitable. 

As if on cue, Tony said, “But there’s one thing you didn’t consider.”

He leveled his gaze at his bro. “And what is that?”

Tony leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Then why does everything taste like chicken?”

Bruce sat there for a minute, unblinking. Three or four times he opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but no words came out. Finally, he muttered a swear word under his breath and asked, “What do we try first?”

Tony smiled.


	2. A Bigger Bird

“Stop looking so dejected,” Tony said as he pressed buttons on the oven. “You’d think I was trying to push you off a cliff instead of cooking you a delicious turkey dinner with all the trimmings.”

Bruce shook his head, his mop of curls brushing the tips of his ears. “I’m grateful for dinner—” he began.

“Then get even more excited, because when I press this button, my Super Oven Mk. VI will cook this bird to a moist, juicy, golden-brown deliciousness in less than twenty minutes!” Tony beamed brightly at his bro, finger raised in anticipation.

The aforementioned bro took a deep breath, then nodded, realizing he had no real control of the situation and therefore no choice in the matter.

Tony practically squealed and pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

Sighing, the billionaire raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, “Jarvis, can you please start the oven?”

“Yes, sir,” the genteel British voice of Tony’s master computer replied. There was a soft beeping as the oven turned on and the timer was set.

“Thanks,” Tony effused. He gestured towards the counter where a huge array of side dishes and desserts awaited: cranberry relish, tangy and sweet; a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes drowning in butter; green bean casserole covered in a layer of crispy onions; yams dotted with marshmallows; green and yellow succotash with pearl onions; cornbread stuffing with sage and sausage; a boat of thick, brown gravy; and, to top it all off, a perfect, bronze-skinned, golden-crusted pumpkin pie. Steam rose from everything, making their mouths water from the lusciousness of it all. “I hope you’ve got room.”

“I don’t know.” Bruce shook his head, unable to take his eyes from the spread. “Are you sure this is all necessary? Because we’re just doing this for me to prove to you not all birds taste alike. You don’t need to make side dishes for that.”

“Oh, these?” he asked, pointing. He stroked his goatee, then waved his hands. “I didn’t make them! I ordered them--well, Jarvis ordered them after I told him to. Didn’t I, Jarvis?”

The voice hesitated then said, “Yes, sir. The...caterer...was quite surprised when you asked for a Thanksgiving feast in January.”

“See?” Tony asked triumphantly.

“My point stands,” Bruce insisted. “What are we going to do with all this food? We can’t possibly eat it all!”

“We’ll give it to everyone else to eat. Carve it up and send it home with the custodial staff. Late Christmas gift. Early Valentine’s gift. Either way.” He glanced at the relish. “Especially if they get a lot of that.”

Before Bruce could say anything the oven dinged. “There we go!” the billionaire crowed. He grabbed a pair of hot pads and pulled the glistening, perfectly-prepared turkey from the oven. He muttered curses under his breath as the scalding metal pan burned through the thin cotton batting of the pads. Bruce darted out of the way so as to avoid taking the tray to the chest. With a sigh of relief, Tony set it down on a pair of trivets his former bodyguard, Happy, had made for him to illustrate just how many bottles of wine he’d imbibed one weekend in Saint Tropez. 

While the billionaire blew on his crimson palms, the curly-haired scientist picked up the carving tools. “Light meat or dark?”

“Both,” Tony insisted. “That way we’ll know for sure.”

Less than an hour later the two science bros sat back in their chairs, loosening their belts and sighing with contentment. Both still had the leavings of their feast on their plates; Tony had left a few spoonfuls of green beans and a touch of yam, while Bruce hadn’t eaten the crust of his pie. Noticeably absent, however, was the turkey. “That was great,” the scientist said. “Mind if I take some back for Natasha?”

“Help yourself,” Tony replied thickly. He dragged his finger through a splotch of gravy and licked it. 

“Thanks.” Bruce stretched. “So, the turkey. It tasted nothing like chicken. Right?”

“Right,” the billionaire admitted. He folded his hands over his slightly distended stomach.

“Good. I’m glad we cleared that up.” Bruce pushed himself away from the table and began to stand.

“But—”

Bruce groaned and sank back into his seat. “What is it this time?”

“That was just turkey. One bird.”

The scientist resisted the urge to tear out his curly hair. “You don’t mean—”

“Tomorrow, we’re going hunting.” Tony grinned hugely while his best bro moaned in a mixture of distress and despair. 


	3. Wild Game

The sun peeped over the tops of the trees, shining down gently on the piney forest. Diurnal critters were just starting to waken and dash around in search of their morning repast. Snowdrops unfurled their petals at the first brush of sunlight, brightening the loamy floor with their pale glow. All was peaceful and bright.

Through the underbrush walked Bruce and Tony. Neither spoke, not wishing to disturb the tranquility around them. They didn’t have any weapons—none that people could see, anyway. Tony was dressed in his customary vintage band t-shirt, though he’d thrown a long-sleeved undershirt on beneath it, and he wore jeans that likely cost twenty times what their appearance would suggest, given the ragged holes and loose threads. Bruce, on the other hand, wore a button-down shirt and a pair of cargo pants, his favorite kinds of leisure wear. Neither wore a coat, despite the season; the El Niño made for a mild winter.

When they came to a likely-looking clearing, Tony set down the basket he’d brought along. Bruce, on the other hand, fidgeted nervously. “Are you sure this will work?”

“Sure it will.” Tony pulled a glove from the basket and snapped it on over his hand. “I’ve seen it dozens of times in the movies.”

Bruce leveled his gaze at his science bro. “‘In the movies’?” he repeated, incredulous. “You dragged me out here at the crack of dawn, and—”

“Relax,” Tony said, standing. “This will be great. We’re going to get ourselves some partridge or quail or something like that, and then we’ll see if it tastes like chicken.”

His bro grumped something under his breath about being prepared for disappointment and how he could easily answer Tony’s questions. “So, what am I supposed to do?” he groused.

“You’re going to go into the bushes and flush out the birds.” The billionaire grinned and snapped the final buckle in place.

“What? Why do _ I _ have to do it?”

“Because I’m the better shot. Now, change and go flush out those birds.”

Bruce spread his hands and looked around the clearing. “Change into what? Where? It’s not as if I brought anything with me.”

Tony grinned meaningfully.

“Oh.” Bruce held up his hands. “Oh, oh no you don’t.” He shook his head and backed up slowly. “You don’t want me to let  _ him _ out here.”

“We’re thirty miles from civilization. You and I are the only people around. We’ve got a bunch of birds to catch. It’ll go a lot faster if you’ll just change. Okay?”

“No way. Not going to happen.” The scientist crossed his arms.

“It’ll be over in two minutes if you change. The rage monster will send all the critters running, I’ll take a few shots, and voila! Grouse for breakfast.” Tony advanced on his bro. “This is happening one way or another.”

“No, it really isn’t. Have you even considered how you’ll get him to go back to sleep? Are  _ you  _ going to do the lullaby? Because I’ve heard you at karaoke, and—”

The billionaire’s lower lip trembled. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up again.”

Bruce sighed. “Look, Tony, I’m sorry. You’ll just have to think up another plan. There’s a butcher shop down on Ninth. We could probably get something there. Hell, we can probably hop a flight to Paris and try all sorts of things. Take Pepper and Natasha along. Make a vacation of it. We don’t have to actually  _ hunt _ for our food anymore. It’s the twenty-first century!”

“Hmm…” the other man mused, rubbing his goatee as he considered that proposition. Bruce began to relax and mentally figure out how to get his girlfriend off-duty for a few weeks. “That could work, my friend. You’re right,” Tony said. “But I have a better plan.”

“What’s that?” asked Bruce hesitantly.

“Change!” Tony raised his palm and fired a plasma blast at Bruce. The bolt only just missed his bro’s foot, instantly turning a fist-sized clump of dirt into a glowing rock.

Bruce managed—barely—to dodge the debris, and he locked gazes with Tony, shock in his brown-cow eyes. “What the hell was that?” he exclaimed, hands shaking.

“Incentive. Now change!” Tony fired another blast. This one splattered into a tree, sending bark flying.

One chip hit the sleeve of Bruce’s buttondown shirt, scorching a hole in the sleeve. He looked down at the charred fabric and, with almost inhuman restraint, said, “Nat bought me this for my birthday. You owe me a new shirt.”

“Oh, please,” Tony scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It was on  _ sale _ .”

Beads of sweat broke out along Bruce’s hairline. “She got it special just for me.” He clenched his teeth as he spoke.

Tony leaned forward and said, “It’s a hand-me-down from  _ Steve _ .”

The goateed man ducked as a tree trunk went flying past his head. With a roar that shook the very earth on which they stood, Bruce Banner’s skin rippled. The shirt burst at the seams as muscles exploded into view and his brown curls became greasy black threads hanging down over skin as green as a ripe avocado. In his mouth were teeth the size of ice cubes, and his eyes had all the cunning of a jungle cat’s. 

The Hulk.

“Maybe that was a bit too far,” Tony murmured.

He dove out of the way, hitting a button on the side of his glove, and the nanobots contained within the cuff engulfed him like crimson oil. He leapt as another tree trunk crashed into the spot where he’d just been standing and activated his repulsor jets. The Hulk roared as Tony flew above the treetops.

“Bingo,” he grinned when he turned on his infrared scanners. Dozens of creatures were fleeing the grove. He swooped down like a bird of prey and fired three blasts in rapid succession. He snatched up his prizes and quipped into his mic, “Look, they even come pre-cooked!”

Tony was still laughing at his own joke when the Hulk’s fist slammed into his stomach.


	4. Setting Boundaries

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked as he pulled the front of Tony’s guest robe tighter around his torso. His skin had lost its green color, and while he was no Steven Rogers for musculature, he was still pretty proud of his pecs. Letting his other side out, though, always left him shivering and near-naked, so he’d helped himself to his bro’s well-stocked wardrobe after he’d calmed down enough to drive them both home.

“I’ll be fine,” Tony responded, wincing. “Just a cracked rib, maybe. Suit’s designed to absorb most of the impact, but after enough punches, something’s bound to get through.” He shifted positions on the bed so as to adjust the ice pack he held against his side.

The scientist tore his eyes from his best bro’s glistening, albeit bruised, body and stared at the New York City skyline. “I’m sorry it took me so long to stop.”

“Hey, I started it,” The goateed man admitted. “And we have three birds cooking in the kitchen right now. I’ll get one of my bots of put on the compression bandage, we’ll eat, and we’ll figure out whether grouse or quail taste like chicken.”

Bruce stared at him, incredulous. He leaned over and turned off the soothing classical music pouring from the hidden speakers in Tony’s headboard “I nearly kill you, and all you can think about is food?”

“Why not? After all I went through to get those birds, you honestly think I’m going to just sit back and forget about eating them? I’ve still got my experiment, injuries or no!” Tony stood and lifted his arms gingerly so the robot that appeared could apply the proper first aid.

“‘The experiment’...” Bruce repeated. He shook his head. “Tony, I don’t know that this is a good idea. I don’t want to get you almost killed again. Do you really want to keep doing this?”

“Of—oof!—course,” Tony insisted as the robot finished off the bandaging. “It’s an important question, and if we don’t answer it, then who will?”

The scientist shook his head again, unable to come up with a suitable response. Finally, he stood and walked to Tony’s closet and pulled out a t-shirt and jeans. As he put them on he said, “Fine. It’s obvious that you’re totally committed. But if we were going to do this, I think we need to set some parameters.”

“What did you have in mind?” Tony walked over to the closet and grabbed a shirt for himself.

Bruce tried to keep the scent of his best bro’s body wash from overwhelming him. He sat down on the edge of the bed while Tony finished dressing. “Well, we’ve got an experiment we’re running. It’d probably be a good idea to run it like an experiment in the lab.”

“Like with a hypothesis and data and all that?”

“Exactly. For instance, our variable is that we’re changing meats. So in order to be fair and accurate, we should probably cook everything the exact same, right? Cook the meats the same way. Don’t add extra seasonings. Have Jarvis keep doing it. And we should figure out exactly how to quantify the data.” Bruce caught the look on Tony’s face. “What?”

“The birds we caught are already being grilled…” he pouted.

The scientist leveled his gaze at the man. “Did you really expect these to taste like chicken?”

“No...I guess not…” Tony turned to the mirror and began futzing with his hair. “But I see your point. The next birds will be prepared the same way. I guess we could just grill or roast everything. And to quantify, why don’t we just blind test? Make a piece of chicken the exact same way, serve it at the same time in bite-sized pieces, and guess which is the chicken?”

“That’s exactly how the  _ Mythbusters _ did it!” protested Bruce. “I don’t want them coming after us.”

“Oh, ours will be different.” Tony reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He turned around and offered it to Bruce. “Take a look.”

He took it and unfolded the sheet. “This is a list of birds from around the world,” he said after a moment. “There must be over 500 types on this list.” He looked up in horror. “Tony, I’m not doing this experiment 500 times.”

“No, no, no,” the billionaire said. He plopped down next to Bruce on the bed. “Look, I’ve circled some from each category. There’s a few songbirds, some flightless ones, a couple raptors...I figure if we just take a representative sample of each of these, we’ll have no problem. If the data overwhelmingly supports either one of our hypotheses—”

“None of these will taste like chicken,” Bruce insisted.

Tony gave him a look and repeated, “If the data overwhelmingly supports either one of our hypotheses, then we can conclude the experiment. However, if it’s balanced--maybe plus or minus one or two samples—then we’ll keep going. How’s that sound?”

Bruce looked over the circled birds one last time. “Just ten more after this?”

“Well, today’s sort of a bust. Without parameters, we can’t accurately conclude that the birds will or won’t be indistinguishable from chicken. So, twelve more, actually.”

_ Twelve tests. That’s twelve days, right? I can keep this up for twelve days _ , Bruce thought, giving the list one more look-through. “Twelve tests. That’s it.”

“Unless it’s inconclusive.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t bother repeating that he was certain they’d know the answer. He handed the list back to his bro. “Where do you suggest we start?”

“What do you say about trying some canary tomorrow?”


	5. A Dish of a Different Color

Antsily, Bruce shifted from foot to foot in front of the door. A brass placard on the white-painted wood declared that this apartment was 208, though there was no indication of the tenant other than the astroturf doormat on the generic low-lying, multicolored hallway carpet. Muffled music could be heard behind the doors down the hall, and the entire windowless space smelled strongly of old curry and cat litter. Behind the door to 208, though, Bruce could hear the rumble of a dishwasher running and, faintly, birdsong.

He shook his wrists in an attempt to unknot his stomach. He’d chosen neatly-pressed chinos—Tony’s laundry-bot even did the front creases like he preferred—and his favorite small-check flannel shirt. He wore a lightweight windbreaker and his graying hair was only slightly mussed. All in all, he was far more presentable than usual. As he’d gotten dressed, he’d hoped that looking good would calm his stomach. It hadn’t exactly worked, and he felt just as anxious as ever. A voice in his head whispered that he was setting himself up for failure, that he should’ve never agreed to be the distraction. That he was a better climber than Tony.

Bruce ignored that voice, the one that was constantly trying to convince him to give into his rage and let free the beast within. He’d gotten used to ignoring it over the past several years, and it was only that incredible amount of self-restraint that kept him from tearing the door from its hinges, bursting into the apartment, and completing the entire mission himself.

That’s what Tony was calling it. A “mission.”

The scientist cracked his knuckles to stop his hands from shaking. He raised his hand, took a deep breath, and knocked.

A few moments later he heard shoes tapping on the floor inside the apartment. The door opened and Nicholas Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., appeared. “Oh, hey, Banner. What can I do for you?”

“Um, I just came over to ask you a question.” This was the part he and Tony had rehearsed all night. Of the two bros the billionaire was a far better liar, but Fury was also naturally suspicious of everything that came out of Tony’s mouth. Bruce, on the other hand, had an incredibly difficult time telling even the smallest of white lies, which meant that Fury had no reason not to trust him. This faith was what they were banking on now.

Fury stood to the side, opening his door wider. “Why don’t you come in and we can discuss it, then?”

Hastily, Bruce shook his head. “It’ll only take a minute. Really.”

Fury raised one eyebrow. “It’s important enough that you couldn’t wait until work on Monday, so you came and hunted me down at my home, but it’s not so important you need to discuss it in private?”

Over the Director’s shoulder Bruce saw a t-shirt-clad arm reaching through the living room window. It was a chilly January day, but the scientist could see a faint, smoky haze near the ceiling. The odor of burnt popcorn hung heavily in the air. Tony had mentioned this part, too: Fury loved microwave popcorn, but he just about always burnt it. To this end the billionaire had sent the director a whole huge Taste-E-Pop gift basket and let the magic happen.

As he watched the arm creep closer to the birdcage beside the living room window, Bruce sent out a message to the universe hoping that he wouldn’t be the one to screw it all up.

Fury was looking at the scientist expectantly, so he launched into his spiel. “You know Agent Romanoff and I have been seeing each other, right?”

“Yes. I’m aware of pretty much everything that goes on among my teams. It’s the only way to keep Hydra on their toes.”

Bruce nodded. “Well, you’ve been working her too hard lately. I want to take her someplace nice, but I never can because she’s always off on some mission or another. I want you to give her some time off.”

The one-eyed man looked stunned for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “You know I’m not really in charge of that.”

“You’re the Director. You can do anything you want,” Bruce insisted, risking a glance over at the hand reaching into the birdcage.

“I really can’t. Most of Agent Romanoff’s missions come from Maria Hill. I’m sure I’ve told you that before. If you want her to take fewer missions—or, at least, to take a break—you’ll have to discuss that with them.”

The hand at the birdcage was having a difficult time with the latch, so Bruce blurted out, “I can’t.”

“I really think this would be a better conversation to have in private, Banner,” Fury said quietly, glancing down the hallway. “I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable talking about this out here.”

Impulsively Bruce reached out and grabbed Fury by the shoulders, holding him in place. “You don’t understand, Nick,” he pleaded. His mind was racing, and he spat out the first things that came into his head: his worst, most secret fears regarding his love life. “If I confront Nat about this, even if it’s coming from a place of honesty and concern, she’ll think I’m being overprotective or trying to pin her down and stop her from living her life. That’s not what it is at all. I just want to spend more time with her. She’ll break up with me, though. She’ll think I’m a distraction. She’ll think I’m getting...clingy.” Bruce swallowed hard and looked down at his feet. “But if you do it, then it can be  _ you _ —or Hill, if you have Hill do it for you, that is—telling her to take a few weeks off and spend them with me. She’ll never believe that I basically came down here begging for this. You’ve really been asking a lot of her the past few months. Missions all over the place. I don’t want her getting tired and sloppy, either.”

Fury reached up and firmly removed Bruce’s hands from his shoulders. “Agent Romanoff is one of my best. She’s not about to get ‘sloppy,’ as you put it.” He looked down into Bruce’s nervous eyes, and his face softened from diamond to corundum. “But you’re right, too. She's been working for months without a break on various missions. If it were a single one, that’d be fine, but she’s had only a few hours between them sometimes. She’s not undercover right now, and she’s certainly earned a vacation. I’ll talk to Hill. Maybe we can come up with something.”

Bruce smiled and peeped at the birdcage. It was empty, the door hanging open. He heaved a sigh of relief. Seeing Fury’s strange expression, he quickly said, “I won’t worry about it, then.” He shook the director’s hand. “Thanks for everything.”

Startled, Fury responded, “You’re welcome.” The scientist turned to go, but the man added, “Oh, and Banner?”

Bruce stopped in his tracks, swallowing hard to quell the sudden uptick in his pulse. “Yes?”

“That thing with Stark...how’s it going?”

Heat rose to his cheeks, and he stuttered, “I-it’s fine, Fury. No problems. Just wanted to ask my question.”

For a long moment all was silent except for the sound of Bruce’s heartbeat in his ears. That moment, passed, though, and Fury said, “Good. Let me know if anything changes.”

“I will. Goodbye, sir.” Woodenly Bruce turned around and made his way back to Stark Tower.


	6. Reconsideration

Both Tony and Bruce stared blankly at the miniature mountains of bones on their plates, a sick look on their faces. They refused to meet one another’s eyes. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked away the seconds, noisily filling up the otherwise silent air.

Softly, Tony said, “That felt  _ wrong _ .”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed, face pale.

“ _ Really _ wrong,” Tony amended. “Like, I feel physically ill after that. I feel  _ evil _ .”

“Yeah,” Bruce repeated. 

“I don’t think we should do that again.”

“Yeah.”

Slowly, Tony stood and walked to a desk in the corner. He drew out a sheet of paper and a pen before lurching back to the table. “I think we need to revise our parameters.”

“Can we clear the table first?” asked Bruce thickly.

“I think that’s a good idea.” Tony pressed a button on the side of the table, and a hole in the center of the round, stainless-steel top opened up. The billionaire shoved his plate into the hole. There was a brilliant flash from within, and a dusty haze rose up. “Incinerator,” Tony explained, seeing Bruce’s startled look. “I don’t think I’ll want to use these plates again.”

Bruce pushed his plate and silverware in the hole, too.

After a moment, Tony shook his head and said, “No more songbirds. From a practical perspective, they’re too small to make more than a tiny taste, so they aren’t worth testing. From an ethical perspective, I’m a bad person and I feel bad for what I’ve done.”

“Me, too,” agreed the scientist, still staring at the tendril of smoke rising from the table’s center.

“So we’ll never speak of this again.”

“No problem.” Bruce took a deep breath and a long swallow from his beer.

“Good.” In block letters Tony wrote the new parameter on the paper. “So those are out. We’ve already covered wild birds—”

Bruce looked up, alarm in his eyes. “Wait, you’re still going to do this?”

“Well, yeah,” replied Tony matter-of-factly. “It’s an experiment, and we’re committed to it.”

“I wouldn’t know about ‘committed,’ per se…”

Tony’s eyes went wide. “You can’t back out on me now, Banner. We’re a team. We’re the Science Bros. This is our thing!”

“Physics is our thing. Figuring out how to protect the Earth is our thing. Answering the big questions of the universe—those are all our thing. This is theft and birds and craziness. It’s not what I signed up for, Tony.” He forced himself to keep his gaze steady even as the billionaire’s face crumbled like a scrap of tin foil. “Why don’t you ask Rhody or Pepper to help you?”

“But...I thought we were bros…” Tony whimpered, his lower lip trembling. “You said you’d help me. You  _ wanted  _ to help me. Are you just going to break your promise like that?”

Bruce took a deep breath to buy himself a moment to think. “What’s this really about? This can’t just be about you wanting to test something as silly as whether birds taste like chicken. Something else is going on here.”

“This isn’t silly! This is  _ dinosaurs _ !” Tony exclaimed, aghast.

Bruce stared into the deep brown eyes of his bro, but they were unreadable.

“Six more birds,” Tony pleaded. “Then we’ll stop.”

“I don’t know. Natasha is home right now, and I’d like to go spend some time with her before HIll sends her off on another mission. I haven’t gotten to see her much lately, what with all the experiments going on--”

“Then bring her along!”

“Huh?”

Tony smiled. “Let her come with us. With another, impartial taste-tester, we can have someone else to help us check. It’ll be more accurate because she won’t have a hypothesis. She’ll be unbiased.”

“I don’t think she’ll want to…” Bruce said. “She’s usually busy with her own thing.”

“But then the two of you could be  _ together _ helping out. We might even be able to get some of the birds. We’ll just make a little list, just six birds, promise, and she can help us.”

Seeing that further argument would be useless, Bruce reluctantly asked, “Which six?”

Tony grinned, victory glinting in his eyes. “Okay, here’s what I’ve got. We finished wild birds—pheasant, grouse, and even the turkey, despite it being farm-raised, but that’s not important. We’re skipping songbirds, so we’ll do three flightless ones, since those could’ve evolved from ground-running dinosaurs, and then the most important category: raptors.”

“Why are they the most important?” asked Bruce, almost afraid of the answer.

“Because of the name. ‘Raptor.’ It’s a kind of dinosaur, so the raptors will probably be the closest we can get to eating an  _ actual _ dinosaur without, say, extracting DNA from a bug in amber and cloning one.”

“You do realize that  _ Jurassic Park _ is just a made-up movie, not a documentary, right?”

“Of course,” Tony scoffed. “But still—”

“No. I draw the line at playing god.” Bruce crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at his bro.

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “No cloning. Got it. Why don’t I make up the list and you figure out how to convince your girlfriend to help us out, hmm?”

The scientist sighed, but didn’t stand to leave. It was going to be a long night.


	7. A Little Help

“Okay, what do you need? I’m kind of blowing off a mission for Fury to be here,” Natasha Romanoff said as she strode into the laboratory. She was in her standard S.H.I.E.L.D Agent gear: skintight black suit, fingerless gloves, and knee-high boots with sturdy soles. Her coppery curls danced along her jaw, but her eyes were flinty as she spoke.

The bros exchanged a glance.

“Well?” she demanded, annoyance in her voice.

Bruce stepped forward while Tony did his best to look busy at one of the computers. “Hey, honey. I’m glad you could make it.”

She leveled her gaze at him.

“Um, well, it’s like this,” the scientist said, swallowing hard. “We need your help to take care of a little bird problem for us.”

“‘Bird problem’?” She rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered, “First Fury, then you. What is it with everyone and birds lately?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Bruce said quickly. He hurried around his computer table and took her hands in his. “All I know is that I really need you this time.”

She seemed placated at this, and Bruce could almost detect the faintest blush painting her cheeks. He made a mental note to give Tony credit for the suggestions on smooth moves earlier.

“All right, all right,” Nat relented. She stepped away and brushed a lock of hair behind one small, shell-shaped ear. “What exactly do you need?”

Bruce grinned at her and grabbed a sheet of paper from his table. “We just need these birds. Only one of each type. Male or female, it doesn’t matter, though female would probably be better.” He looked at Tony for confirmation, and the goateed man nodded sharply in agreement. “But whatever you can get for us, honey, will be just fine.”

Natasha scanned the paper, her eyes narrowing as she went down the page. “‘Penguin,’ ‘hawk,’ ‘vulture’…what is this last one here?”

Bruce looked over her shoulder. “Um…”

“Kestrel,” Tony called from his place across the room.”

“Right, kestrel,” Bruce said, deciphering Tony’s scrawl. He smiled encouragingly at his girlfriend.

She looked up, a concerned expression on her face. “How do you expect me to do this, guys? I’m no ornithologist. You need a zookeeper to get these things.

The scientist glanced over at Tony, rolling his eyes. “That’s what I said, but he didn’t believe me.”

“Was this all you wanted?” asked Natasha. “Can I get back to work now?”

“No,” Tony said. He jogged over and opened the list. “These are all perfectly easy for you to get. Maybe the penguin might be a little trickier, because they’re not native for you, but the others—there’s hawks and vultures and stuff down there. If you can’t find a kestrel or anything, substitute another bird of prey. We mostly just need it to be a raptor of some sort. Use your best judgment.”

“‘Down there’?” queried the agent stormily. “Explain, Stark. Now.”

“Well, you’re a spider, right?”

“Not really, but—” she began, but Tony cut her off.

“And spiders grow really big in the Amazon—”

“I’m Russian, and—”

“So big, sometimes, that they go after things other than insects,” Tony finished, grinning. “Like birds.”

“I am  _ not _ a South American bird-eating spider!” Natasha exclaimed, spreading her hands wide in disbelief. “I’m not  _ actually _ a spider at all!”

“But you’re Black Widow,” pointed out Tony, speaking as if to a child. “Black widows are a kind of spider.”

Bruce stared at him like he was an idiot.

“That’s just my nickname!” Natasha protested. “I’m a person. Do you think Bruce and I would actually be together if I were a giant spider?”

The billionaire looked at the scientist, shrugging. “Maybe? I don’t ask too many questions, though I assume you haven’t slept together yet, since he’s still alive.”

The woman looked like she was going to either tear out her hair or punch Tony in the groin, so Bruce stepped in quickly. “So you won’t help?”

“No,” she said firmly. She crumpled up the paper and threw it at Tony, then stalked out of the room. The door closed behind her with an slam of finality.

Tony bent and picked up the list, smoothing it out carefully and putting it in his pocket. “I guess that’s a no on the birds, then,” he said.

“I guess so.” A glow of pleasure spread through Bruce’s chest at the thought, and he promised himself he’d make Natasha some blintzes later.

“Oh well,” Tony said, shaking the dejected look from his face. “I wonder if that Parker guy is doing anything at the moment.”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. He patted his bro on the shoulder and said, “My friend, I think we’re going to have to have a talk…”


	8. Spread Your Wings

They started with the most obvious of the flightless birds. It was the easiest to get, and of the three options they’d laid out, the one that made the most sense and would have the best chance of tasting like chicken. Bruce was still pretty much convinced that there would be no bird that fit, but Tony's face was bright and happy as they walked through the sliding door. “Here it is!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “The best, biggest, most wonderful grocery store in the entire world!”

Bruce looked around the lobby, taking in the battle-scarred linoleum, plain metal racks, and rows of fluorescent lights dangling from the high warehouse ceiling. “Really.”

“Yes, really. This is Jungle Jim’s, the coolest store ever.”

“And it’s in Ohio.” Bruce’s voice was skeptical.

“just come on,” tony said, a bit of exasperation seeping into his voice. He grabbed his bro’s hand and dragged him in.

There was a pharmacy at the entrance filled with dozens of medications, ranging from the common brands to exotic homeopathic concoctions. Nearby ( _ Ironically _ Bruce thought) was the entire alcohol aisle. The scientist was actually impressed with the selection, and had Tony not been there, he would’ve gone to find something special for Natasha. She had a particular brand of wine she was fond of, but it was fairly difficult to find, even cosmopolitan New York City. Instead, he was pulled onward by Tony's insistent hand on his arm, past an immense wall of jelly beans, the “World’s Largest Cheese,” and a fifty-foot deli counter. The bakery offered chocolate-covered bacon and Texas sheet cake, pastry puffs and eclairs filled with real cream and custard, apple pies boasting a half-dozen varieties of apple, and elegant, multi-tiered wedding cakes. He saw a tray of delicate petit fours and wanted to take all of them home to share.

He only caught a glimpse of them, though, before Tony took him to the butcher’s counter. In the big cool cases were seeming hundreds of varieties of animals in dozens of different cuts. Seeing some many types of flesh and smelling the cold, bloody odor of raw meat made him kind of queasy, particularly after the mouth-watering desserts and cheeses he’d just seen. “What’re we here for?” he asked, swallowing down his gorge.

Tony wandered to an open display. “This place sells ostrich. I figured we could get some and cook it up. Much easier than trying to hunt one down in the wild.”

Bruce blinked and before he could stop himself said, “Wow, Tony. I’m impressed. This is the first good idea you’ve had in awhile!”

The man looked hurt, but he turned to the case. “This will be perfect. We’ll grab some ostrich, see if they have either of the other birds on the list, and get out of here.”

There were so many kinds of meat, though, that they resorted to asking one of the butchers about their selection of ostrich. She was helpful and showed them exactly where it was, apparently used to such unusual inquiries. Tony picked up a package of roughly a pound of ostrich breast, then pulled out his list. “Carla—your name  _ is _ Carla, right?” The woman nodded, glancing down at the name embroidered on her white smock. “Carla, you wouldn’t happen to have any kiwi, would you?”

“We do, but those will be in the produce aisles with the other fruits,” she replied. She adjusted her apron and looked at the clock on the wall as if calculating the time until lunch.

“Oh, no. Not the green stuff. I mean the bird.”

“Like, from Australia?” She narrowed her eyes. “No, we don’t sell that. I’m pretty sure they’re endangered and under protection.”

“Well, that takes care of that…” Tony yanked his original list from his pocket. Scanning it quickly, he asked, “What about emu? Or penguin?”

Carla looked horrified. “‘Penguin’?” she repeated. “You want to eat  _ penguin _ ?”

Tony shrugged. “We’re doing an experiment.”

He gave him the side eye and walked over to another part of the counter.

Once she was out of earshot, Bruce turned to his bro. “We’ve got the ostrich. Why don’t we leave it at that? We can try another game bird. We didn’t eat partridge. They might have that here.” He tugged Tony’s sleeve in an effort to get him to move.

The billionaire extracted his sleeve from Bruce’s grasp and shook his head. “We’re staying. I didn’t fly an hour and a half and then fire a Maserati to bring us all the way here to  _ only _ get ostrich. If that was what I was going to do, I would’ve just gone to the exotic meat market down the street from the Tower.”

Bruce stared incredulously at Tony. “You mean, I could’ve stayed in today and gotten work done—or, even better, replaced Fury’s canary—and you could’ve just walked a block to get this stuff?!”

“C’mon, I can’t do this without my bro!” the billionaire whined plaintively. He threw an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and grinned. “If you stayed home, this would all just be pathetic!”

Bruce took a deep, soothing breath to calm himself and the voice inside that whispered to let  _ him _ handle this. He swallowed back a half-dozen acerbic comments and said instead, “If we’re not able to get either of those, I vote we just get the ostrich and get the hell out of here. I don’t like the way those other butchers are looking at us.”

Tony looked over a the glaring faces of two men in blood-stained white jackets. Slowly he lowered his arm and stepped a good two feet from his bro. “Sorry. We’re not skipping, but we can always take a side trip on the way home if we have to.”

“‘Side trip’? For penguin or emu? Tony, you’re my bro, but I’m not going to Antarctica with you.”

“We’ll see...oh!”

Carla the butcher walked back up to him. Her face was stony and she practically threw the package at their faces. “Emu,” she said grouchily. “No penguin here.”

“Thanks anyway!” chirped Tony brightly, giving her his thousand-watt grin. The woman turned away in disgust and went to help the next customer.

Bruce watched her go, wishing he had the guys to blow off the billionaire like that, at least during his more idiotic schemes. Dryly he asked, “Do you mind if we get some wine to go with that? Or maybe some dessert?”

“Sure!” Tony agreed. “I wonder if the sommelier can suggest something that’ll pair well with penguin.”


	9. One Stone

The bruise on Bruce’s shin was large and purple-black and hurt like the dickens when he peeled his sock off, getting ready for bed. His shirt was a loss—there was no way he’d be able to get any of the stains out of it. He was still surprised to just how bad a mark raw fish and prunes could leave.

At least he’d been able to wash his hair somewhat on the plane. Tony’s private jet didn’t exactly have a full bath, but it’d had some soap, a sink, and plenty of fluffy towels. He’d managed to get the worst of the gunk out somehow. The rest would keep until morning, even if it meant burning his bedding and replacing it on his bro’s dime.

Tony could afford to replace it.

It turned out that grilled emu wasn’t that bad. A bit dry, perhaps, but nothing as exotic as Bruce would’ve expected for a bird not typically eaten as food. According to the package this was farm-raised emu, which he wouldn’t have believed existed, and Bruce’s inner scientist insisted that such a thing could potentially skew the results; wild emu could have a different diet or feeding pattern, it might be tougher or stringier due to dodging predators, and so on and so forth. The variables were almost endless. However, the part of him that was completely over this whole farce of an experiment was more than happy to let these concerns slide.

The ostrich was also farm-raised, and it was as succulent and juicy as any meat Bruce had ever put in his mouth. It had a slightly gamy aftertaste, and the texture was definitely unusual, but it was the closest to “delicious” as anything else unusual they’d tried.

But neither he nor Tony had mistaken it for chicken.

Neither meat had been worth the riot Tony’s question about a wine pairing for penguin had incited, either. He’d approached a stockboy and asked what he’d recommend. The clerk had been taken aback at the strange request, and gone to get his manager for assistance. They’d returned and Tony had repeated his question.

All would’ve been fine if there hadn’t been a little girl in the same aisle standing with her mother. The child had overheard the word “penguin” and asked, “Why are you giving grown-up grape juice to a pengi?”

Bruce had stared in horror as his brow laughed and said, “Oh, no! Don’t worry, kiddo. We’re not giving wine  _ to  _ the penguin.” He’d knelt and added, “We’re going to drink the wine while we  _ eat _ the penguin.”

The little girl’s eyes had gone as large as dinner plates and filled with tears. “You’re going to  _ eat _ Mumble?!” she’d wailed.

Her piercing voice combined with the weird, goateed man kneeling before her had drawn the attention of the girl’s mother, who began her own minor freakout. Her ire intensified when the child sobbed that the two bad men were going to capture, kill, and devour “Mumble.”

More people had been drawn to the scene, and fruit and other groceries had started flying. Within minutes Tony and Bruce were covered in filth. Fruit pulp mixed with blood from packages of meat and crumbs from thrown cake. Tony had just grabbed the first bottle he could put his grubby paws on, thrown a fistful of hundred-dollar bills at the manager, and dashed out the door, Bruce hot on his tail.

Luckily, there wasn’t any trouble getting to the Maserati, though Bruce may have nicked the car next to theirs opening his unwieldy gull-wing door. They’d torn out of the parking lot with a deep, throaty roar of the engine. Bruce had fumbled with his seat belt as they zoomed down the highway at over a hundred miles an hour, weaving through the other cars like they were making a tapestry. They’d made it to Dayton Airport and taken off in Tony’s private jet. Within an hour of the disgusting incident they were soaring back to New York City.

Along the way they’d received word that Stark had been placed under a lifetime ban from Jungle Jim’s for his “inexcusable behavior.” It was only his name and Avenger status that kept him from further punishment.

_ On the other hand _ , Bruce mused as he snuggled under the warm down comforter on his bed,  _ I’m still free to go back when I wish. Maybe get something better than that bottle of Smitty’s Triple-X Jug-o’-Booze like the one Tony grabbed. _ Just the memory of it searing his throat was enough to make his innards churn.

While he wasn’t particularly in the best shape that night, he felt lonely for Nat’s company. He wanted to describe to her in great detail his bro’s latest stunt. They could’ve ordered in from one of the fifty restaurants nearby and settled down to shahi paneer from Lakshmi’s or something from that new Ethiopian place that’d just opened down on fifth. They could’ve laughed at the ridiculousness of it all while digging into a shared pint of Mama Leone’s Gelato. But she’d left him a message on his phone saying she was off on the hunt for Fury’s canary, and she wasn’t sure when she’d get back. She wasn’t around to sooth his unsettled nerves.

The scientist sighed and rolled over. The meat had been good, but Tony’s attitude during the whole ordeal had been nothing short of frustrating. Even beyond that, there was the other matter to worry about: the man’s increasingly erratic behavior. It seemed endemic of an even bigger issue. He’d been acting strangely ever since the alien attack in New York. Certainly he had reason; he’d almost been killed after all, first by the Chitauri and then by just about sacrificing himself to send the UN’s nuke into the wormhole. But this weirdness had started even earlier than that, according to Fury. Shortly before Bruce had met him his behavior had begun getting odder. And ever since, he’d been acting like a man with little left to lose.

Bruce rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. He didn’t want to deal with any of it tonight. He just wanted the peaceful release of sleep, eight hours of blissful darkness without any crazy bird-eating fiascos or concerns about his own, top-secret mission.

He wanted to ignore the biggest question of all, the one Tony was likely obsessing over right that second: where the heck were they going to get a penguin?


	10. The Third Bird

Strangely, it didn’t end up being Bruce’s problem. Tony actually took the initiative and phoned any number of zoos, nature habitats, and private parks asking after any penguin people might have on hand. While the sums he offered weren’t exactly princely, they were at least decent enough to attract the attention of some federal agents concerned with preservation of endangered species. _That_ was a fun conversation to listen in on: Tony frantically trying to explain to both the FBI and PETA’s militarized branch that it was only a single penguin he needed for an experiment on the taste of meat. The look of horrified shock on the PETA agent’s face had been priceless, and it’d taken two of the FBI bruisers and another of Tony’s autonomous suits to keep the enraged man from socking the billionaire in the nose. In the end they’d left, telling Tony that he could only take a penguin unwanted by anyone else.

Most of the places he tried, though, either had no penguins at all, or at the very least none they were willing to part with. Those who did changed their minds immediately upon finding out his grisly plans for the black-and-white bird.

Tony threw down his cell phone in disgust after the thousandth rejection. “This is ridiculous. You’d think that no one had ever eaten penguin before.”

“I don’t think it’s a common dish for most cultures,” Bruce replied mildly, fiddling with his computer. His bro had appropriated his laboratory for the day, and Tony’s bargaining was beginning to fray the scientist’s nerves.

“But they’re just penguins. It’s not like I’m trying to eat a baby or clone a dodo.” He paused thoughtfully.

“No, Tony. You’re not going to clone a dodo so you can eat it. _Jurassic Park_ is fiction, remember? We already had this discussion.” Forcefully, Bruce punched some buttons on the screen.

“But the travel documents all say that they were super-delicious,” whined the billionaire petulantly. He scratched his nose. “I’m pretty sure they’ve got a skeleton in a natural history museum somewhere. All we need is a little bone marrow for a DNA sample, and—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted sternly.

“But—”

“No, Tony,” he repeated. “No cloning. Get a penguin or the experiment is over.” The scientist leveled his gaze at the man, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sighing, Tony turned back to his phone. “I’ll try someone else.”

Satisfied—at least momentarily—that he’d staved off disaster, Bruce turned back to his work. He scrolled through the data on his latest project, a vaccine to fight a virus that had evolved recently in South America. It was particularly harmful to pregnant women, leading to severe complications in their pregnancies and the development of their fetuses, often resulting in crippling mental and physical deformities. He’d gotten some of the most recent vector data from the DCD, and he was eager to add it to the current iteration of his simulation. He was just about to run the updated version when Tony’s voice broke his concentration. “What?” he asked, exasperated.

“It says they’ve uncovered the remains of the Rhêims expedition!”

“Oh,” replied Bruce. He turned back to watch the numbers flashing on his screen.

“It was a failed overland trip. Some explorers were going from the south of France to Salzburg, Austria back in the mid-seventeenth century. They were crossing the Alps on the way back from an expedition to Africa and the nearby islands when they were trapped in a massive snowstorm. There was an avalanche, too. Lots of valuable things were lost.”

“Mm-hmm,” replied Bruce. He set some new parameters.

“Among the stuff that was lost were priceless artifacts from the middle east and the coast of Africa. Dozens of rare and exotic animals, too.”

Bruce looked up, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Tony’s eyes sparkled as they met his bro’s. “They were bringing a dodo with them.”

“I said no dodo, Tony. Didn’t I just say that? I’m pretty sure I just said that.”

“But this one’s been _frozen_! It’s just like if you had some meat in the back of your freezer in case you’re almost out of groceries but you need to cook something real. It should still be good,” reasoned the billionaire.

“It’s been in the snow for centuries. _Outside_!”

“Frozen!”

Bruce sighed and decided to try a different tack. “I’ll all go to science. You know this.”

“And you’re a scientist. Even better, you’re a _doctor_ scientist. S.H.I.E.L.D. ought to get in on the action. Who know what medical secrets the dodo might hold? You can request a chunk of frozen dodo meat—a breast, or maybe a drumstick—and then sneak us a little for our own dinner plates. You know. For science. The rest we can foist off on some hapless intern who wants to test it for whatever those guys do.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s a bad idea.” Tony’s face fell, and Bruce continued, “It’s not just a bad idea, it’s completely unethical. We’re going to just take a bit of a dead bird, a bird that’s been extinct for 350 years, and cook it up like it’s nothing? When people could be doing actual, legitimate things with the tissue and everything they’ve found? You want them to destroy it?”

Ton shrugged, an unconcerned look in his eyes. “That’s what the dude did with the mammoth.”

Frustration rose volcanic in the scientist’s gullet, and the whispering voice in his head urged him to give into his anger. It showed him images of Tony cowering in terror and agreeing to whatever Bruce proposed, of the end of an idiotic experiment and the beginning of something fun and new. Something worthwhile. His teeth sank into his tongue deep enough to draw the coppery taste of blood into his mouth, and the sharp, metallic flavor brought him back to his senses. He needed his control. As easy as it would be to give in, he couldn’t do this as the other guy.

Very slowly and clearly he said, “I”m not going to risk my standing in the science community so you can see what dodo tastes like.”

“Huh?” Tony looked up from the screen of his phone. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Why?” His tone was wary.

The billionaire held up his device so Bruce could see. “I already put in the request in your name. Used your email, too.”

Bruce fled the room before he could do something he’d regret.


	11. Rookery

Icy silence reigned in the laboratory over the next several days. Brue didn’t stomp or tantrum or slam down his clipboard, but neither did he volunteer any words save for the most necessary of requests. Typically he’d help Tony write down data on whatever assignment he was working on and vice versa, but this time the man dusted off his handy recording program on the computer and dictated notes and memos and information that way. When he needed help combining a series of chemicals quickly for his vaccine, he called in an assistant from the next floor down. When Tony stood in front of the cupboard containing the Erlenmeyer flasks, Bruce coldly, but politely, asked him to move.

For his part, the goateed man made overtures of peace. Each morning when Bruce arrived he found breakfast: a plate of crepes stuffed with strawberries and cream; a veggie frittata with a side of grapefruit; eggs benedict with spinach and tomato. There was always fresh coffee, and he found snacks in every drawer—snacks  _ he _ liked, not just the strange, exotic, or organic things Tony kept around for himself. There were even hundred-dollar bills tucked into the pockets of his lab coat. Bruce would take these out, uncrumple them, and drop them deliberately on the floor.

It took strength to ignore Tony’s devastated looks.

At last one day Bruce walked in to find a medium-sized crate standing where he usually worked. It was roughly five feet cubed with holes drilled all along the top. The wood at the bottom was vaguely damp, and the whole thing reeked faintly of old fish and saltwater. Eau de dockworker. 

“What in the fresh hell is this?” muttered the scientist as he approached. A crowbar leaned against the side of the crate with a sort of careless deliberate-ness, and Bruce shook his head. “If this is some sort of extra-fresh Japanese sushi breakfast, I’m going to talk to Fury about joining the R and D team down at headquarters. Maybe take him up on that teaching position at the SciTech Academy he told me about. I could teach. They’d all like me there. I’ve got the other guy under control now, too, and—” With a heave he wrenched the crowbar upwards and tore the lid off the crate.

Lying inside on a small, slowly-melting slab of ice and surrounded by a dozen or so dead fish was a small penguin. Its feathers were black and with, like he was wearing a tiny tuxedo jacket, and the feathers stretched over his bill were like his very own cravat. The white rings over his eyes were miniature monocles. He was no more than two feet tall, probably closer to twenty inches. He raised his head to the staring scientist and said, “ _ Kweh _ ?”

Bruce was still standing there, stunned, when Tony walked into the laboratory. The billionaire saw the crate and exclaimed, “Oh! Good! It finally came!” He dashed over. “It’s penguin. I did use your name to get a sample of the dodo, but I’m having that delivered to the guys downstairs. This, though, is your surprise.” Tony grinned toothily. “I called up the team stationed in Antarctica to see if they could get us some penguin. I asked them if they ever at it, and they told me they did and that it wouldn’t be a problem. They said it’s good, too, so we’re in for a treat. I’ll get Jarvis started on cooking it right away. Does it look fresh?”

Bruce nodded. “Oh, it’s fresh all right.” He stepped aside so Tony could look into the crate.”

The man stepped up, and the penguin turned its tiny, feathered face up. It squawked, “ _ Kweh _ !”

He stepped back and said, “Yup, it’s fresh, all right. I’ll tell Jarvis to sharpen the big knife.”

Bruce whirled on his bro, eyes wide. “You’re going to kill him?” he gasped.

“Well, yeah. That’s what we wanted him for. Food. To see if it tastes like chicken. Why else would I work so hard to get a penguin?”

“I don’t know. Because they’re good hunters and not terribly well-studied and they can teach us a lot about fluid dynamics in a saline environment?”

Tony narrowed his eyes, peering into Bruce’s face. “I worked really hard for this, Banner. YOu didn’t talk to me for days— _ days _ —even though I gave you shinies to try and apologize. I kept it a secret because I wanted it to be a surprise for you, so you’d be happy and we’d have a sample of meat from our last flightless bird. YOu know how many times I almost told?” He leaned in close. “Nine. I almost told you  _ nine _ whole times.”

Bruce backed away slightly, stepping between the crate and his bro. He glanced deep inside it, at the innocent black eyes of the downy little penguin. The creature had hunkered down in the corner of the crate at the sound of Tony’s voice, but it approached Bruce as their eyes met. With a plaintive sound he rested the tip of his beak as near the open edge of the crate as he could manage. 

The scientist whirled to face his bro. “You can’t eat him if he has a name.”

“Please. Like that’d stop me. We ate Billy Ray of Sunshine no problem,” Tony scoffed, crossing his arms.

“You felt sick afterwards,” retorted Bruce, mimicking his pose.

“Oh, God,” the billionaire groaned as a look of horror crossed his face. “You named it, didn’t you.”

“We’re not eating Mr. Flippers and that’s final.” Bruce scowled to prove his point.

Electricity seemed to fly in the air as the men stared each other down. The voice in Bruce’s head began whispering about how lovely it would feel to have Tony pressed up to the countertop, quaking in fear and stammering that the penguin would be eternally safe from human consumption. Adrenaline began surging through his veins, prepping him for the change.

Before he could lose control, Tony hung his head in defeat. “What are we going to do with it, then? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly designed to keep aquatic birds here.”

“I know,” Bruce said, looking down at Mr. Flippers in his crate. “But it wouldn’t be the first weird thing we’ve taken in.”

“True. I once decided to share my lab space with a guy who turns into a crazy green dude when he’s angry.” Tony smiled.

Inwardly Bruce heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ll figure out a place for him. He won’t live here in the lab.”

“Right.” Tony shook his head and went to his computer. Under his breath—but loud enough for Bruce to hear—he muttered, “I can’t believe you fucking named it.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Dish of a Different Color: A Canary's-eye View](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157423) by [Margaret Ann (Manderson)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann)




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